Revenge By Any Other Name
by gottalovett
Summary: Mary Von Tassal- what happened in her childhood to drive her to madness. sexual assault in the story but mild.


Revenge By Any Other Name…

They were naked but for the warm coverlets that lay atop them. His hand still clutched at a strand of her pale, blonde hair even as he snored loudly, ageing face content. The woman was younger than he was, or at least she appeared to be, with her long, well kept pale locks, large powder blue eyes and flawless pale skin. She could have been any age from thirty to fifty for she was old enough to know of the world's hidden secrets and naivety was long gone from her face; yet she was so peerless and bright that she appeared young to the casual observer. It was an ageless sexual beauty that even old women can sometimes still retain.

But if one looked closely at this being of harmonious perfection, one noticed that the woman's teeth were slightly pointed, that her lovely red mouth was pursed distastefully as she looked at her husband, that perhaps there was something unsavory underneath the surface of those eyes. This was a woman who had learnt how to hate.

Her name was Mary Von Tassal, lady of a prosperous estate, wife to immense power, respected by the villagers of Sleepy Hollow, and yet the feral hatred, the loathing in her countenance suggested something deeper. For all that fortune had smiled upon this woman, she was not content.

* * *

Mary carefully extricated herself from under Baltus' hulking body. She had given him pleasure tonight, even as she had felt sick to the stomach at him being inside her. He was the type of man her mother had warned of; men who did not have the capacity to really love; only to lust. They were ruled not by the heart but by the balls. Her mouth curved into a contemptuous smile at the thought. In many ways she had been soiled by allowing him to even touch her, but the end justifies the means. She had learnt that from a young age. That and the pressing drive for revenge that could last a whole lifetime.

Mary absentmindedly picked up a gilt inlaid hairbrush from her dressing table, brushing out carefully her long hair. Many gossips in the town called her vain, envious of her youthful beauty, but for Mary it was the only thing she had left to use in a man's world of pleasure and pain. Her home, her wealth, her family had all been taken from her. Even her sister was gone; driven insane in the Western Woods and the men that crept into her cave every night till in the end Mary had had to kill her to survive. Sara had not understood the warming power of revenge in her madness. It had been necessary.

Every time Mary looked into her dressing table mirror she saw the painful past glare back at her; the face of her mother before despair had struck her down. A single tear fell onto her pale hand at the memories.

"Mary, come see. Mama's drawing pictures in the dirt again." Mary's sister Sara, was looking excitedly at her.

In the evenings Mary's mother would often draw such images, reciting words with them or simply concentrating quietly in the dark. She was the village herblorist, and often she would go into the Village laden with herbs and potions to aid some sick soul. She'd take the packhorse and be home for the dinner meal. It was always after such visits that she would sketch in front of the fire. Now that the girls were older, they were allowed to watch, sitting silently.

Mary took Sara's hand as they went back into the cottage they rented in exchange for her fathers work for the Von Garret's. Just lately, her sister and Mary had begun learning herb lore and the chants that went with such knowledge.

Her mother didn't look up from the smoking peat fire and the stick she was using to poke the dirt packed ground. "Come closer Mary," she murmured, "you can't see from where you are standing." The ground was filled with spirals and sigils, Mary noticed as she drew nearer. "They're spells of healing," her mother continued, "the bartenders wife is ill." The traveling cloak fell back from her face, revealing the beauty that Mary's childlike figure promised. Her face glowed in the light of the fire.

* * *

Whenever they went into the village, someone would whisper and point at Mary and her sister. Murmurs of witchcraft and the devils incantations. Nobody wanted her mother's aid anymore. When she came into the village they'd spit at her while the Reverend preached loudly of sin and idolatry in the town square. Her mother's eyes would fill with tears, but she'd keep going back. Mary would spend her time imagining delicious agonies for those who had made her mother cry. Even at ten she had decided she would learn to love power; if only to see the village pigs bow down in fear before her.

* * *

She memorized the lore book till she was more adept than even Sara. "You have the gift that Sara doesn't," her mother would say to her after each new lesson. Soon Mary could brew potions and create remedies as well as her mother. Even love charms and philters came easily to her. The blood and the feathers and the wax and the water responded to her words and to her words alone.

And every day her beauty grew.

* * *

She had been out with her sister collecting quills for potions. They'd stayed out till evening, expecting to come home to a roaring fire and meat slabs with griddle bread on the plain, wooden table. But as they'd neared the cottage, they'd seen something was not quite right. There were no comforting lights flickering from the single cottage window or a mother waiting expectantly at the door. Mary had opened the door to find her mother slumped at the table, head in her hands. When she looked up there were tear stains tangled in her lashes and her face was blotchy from weeping.

"What is it mother?" Mary had gasped in fright, thinking her mother ill.

"Your father… is dead. He… died out on the fields… just…he… stopped breathing." Mary's mother's voice rasped and then she stared fixedly into space as though steeling herself to say something more.

"Mary, Sara," she began, her voice urgent, "I've had a visit from the Von Garrett's. Old man Von Garrett has evicted us." Her voice was toneless, all the life had left her defeated body.

Sara began to cry as Mary felt a lump form at the back of her throat. But her eyes refused to water. "But mother… where are we to go?"

"How should I know, child? All I know is we must leave and leave immediately. The villagers already fear me and who knows what they'd do, when they hear of our change in fortune. Get a cloth and wrap as much as you can in it… move." The sharpness of her mother's voice told Mary, her mother knew exactly what a mob of villagers could do.

Mary's face stiffened remembering it all. The fear, the powerlessness, the helpless rage.

Her mother's haste had been for nothing. The men of the village had come quickly, to gloat over others misfortune like the flea infested curs they truly were. "Come out Witch, come out," they'd called mockingly. And then they'd kicked the wooden door down, and they'd reached for Mary's mother, the lust in their eyes frightening. They'd licked their fat, juicy lips and they'd lined up for a taste of her mother. And her mother had no energy in her left to fight; the shock of her husband's death dehabilitating.

She'd let them pull her up by the long, blonde hair so like Mary's own, let them press their hot mouths against her as they unlaced their leggings. Mary had tried to cover Sara's eyes but the screaming drove away any hope of shielding her sister from the horror unfolding in their own home. All of the men of Sleepy Hollow stood in line, waiting patiently for their turn, while the shrieks bore like a drill deep into Mary's mind, inerasable by even the passing of time.

Soon her mother grew silent, too exhausted to even cry out. Her dress was up around her waist and there was blood on her thighs, on her raked cheeks, on her bitten lips.

The last man got up from where he had been kneeling over Mary's mother. There were teeth marks across her mother's breasts. With a gasp of shock, Mary realised it was Von Garrett himself. He slapped Mary's mother across the face, hauled her to her feet; pulled her, dragged her by the hair out the door.

Throughout this pain, this suffering; the others said nothing. They just laughed and followed their leader outside like obedient dogs. Mary and Sara were left unnoticed in a corner. They slipped outside, trying to get a glimpse of their mother.

The men had slipped away like thieves in the night. And their mother was dead.

Her neck had been broken, bruises indicated where she had been kicked by copper toed boots; and the excruciating pain of multiple rapes was still written across her dead face.

That night Mary and Sara had buried their mother in the Western Woods, pulling her dress neatly down and wiping the blood of her sightless face.

That was the night Mary had learnt how to hate.

At ten she was beautiful.

At ten she knew hatred.

At ten she had offered her soul to the Hessian in exchange for revenge.

And what sweet revenge it would be.

* * *

Fifteen years later, Mary had re-emerged from the woods, clever, beautiful and dangerous. She had presented herself as a sick nurse to the ailing Elizabeth Von Tassal at Sleepy Hollow and she had poisoned her.

Mary paused as she continued to brush out her long hair. It was a pity really. Mary could have liked Elizabeth. She too, had known the power of magic and she too had taught her daughter its fundamentals. It was funny really; Elizabeth had known Mary was going to kill her. It was in her eyes; big, brown, soft, expressive eyes that had long ago given up on pleading. In the end she had understood and she had accepted her fate.

Yes, Mary respected Lady Elizabeth Von Tassal. Unfortunately for her she had married Baltus. And Baltus was a Von Garrett, he had taken her home from her, and he would pay like the Von Garrett's and Elizabeth already had.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. So would Katrina Von Tassal. She carried Von Garrett blood in her veins and she was a gormless ninny to boot. Lady Elizabeth would have understood. Besides, she knew magic and she would pay for the knowledge in the only coinage worth having; blood.

As Mary dressed to embark on her nightly rendezvous with the Reverend (Oh he was not so ready to speak of witchcraft now; not when her body afforded him sensual pleasures), she looked with loathing at Baltus. "Soon, very soon now, I shall be free of you, my dear,' her voice crooned seductive.

Oh yes, there was no doubt about it, Mary was wicked through and through, but no more wicked than the entire hamlet of Sleepy Hollow was. It was a delicious feeling, knowing her revenge was almost complete.

She was sure her mother would have approved.


End file.
